Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 47222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
It’s hard to believe it’s been six months without him.
Unlike my mother’s passing, Pa’s death is the most painful thing I have ever experienced. The disease that took him had been silent, deadly, and unfortunately, not very swift. Pa always claimed that he wasn’t in too much pain, but I knew it wasn’t true. I watched him deteriorate in front of my very eyes, slow at first, but then fast. He went from not being able to lift a bale of hay to being unable to balance a fork in his fingers. It was horrible for both of us – for my father and the loss of his independence, and for me, witnessing such frustration and indignity.
The last few days of his life, however, were a blessing. He had seemed more at ease, talking about how he’d finally get to be with my mother, that he had taught me all he could, and how I’d be just fine. In those last hours, I didn’t contradict him, and he passed with a peaceful smile on his face. For that I will always be grateful, I vow.
But today, sitting on the porch of the farmhouse that now belongs to me, looking out over the run-down property that also belongs to me, I am less than grateful. You could have taught me so much more, Pa, I argue with no one. I’m not fine. I’m miserable.
After all, the farm is suffering. During my father’s sickness, I was pre-occupied with keeping him comfortable and happy. Then, those first few weeks after my father’s death, I blamed the property’s condition on the fact that I was depressed. I’m still depressed, to be honest, but it doesn’t matter. The animals won’t wait for anyone, nor do the crops. There’s no excuse for its rundown state.
In some ways, I feel like this land, my home, has turned against me. The wheat refuses to grow, despite having planted it just like Pa used to. The damn chickens are finicky about how often they lay eggs and seem to be disappearing daily. The vegetable garden is taking its sweet time to yield anything edible. I sweep my hand through my still-wild hair, longer over the years but still unruly.
At least the cow provides milk every morning. A smile comes to my face as I think about Miss Bethy. When I was a kid, I used to call her Miss Moo Cow, and my father got her a bell that read just that: Miss Bethy Moo Cow. Now, I hear the little bell tinkle, the old beast’s signal that she’s ready to be milked once more.
I wipe my brow and grimace. It’s not yet seven in the morning and already the sun is blazing hot and the air muggy. Last night’s rains left a stagnant, clammy heat in the air, and I can already tell it’s going to be a scorcher. But the rain also amplified my favorite parts of the farm: the smell of tilled soil and Carolina jasmine, the latter of which runs along the wooden fence along the perimeter. The jasmine is the only thing about this place that is going well, I think in a rueful tone.
I look up at the porch ceiling. It’s covered in cobwebs and chipping plaster, flecks of which cover the porch floor, despite my constant sweeping. The railing is missing some bars, and one of the front steps is cracked. The doorframe into the old farmhouse is rotting from all the hard winter storms, sagging inward like a beaten old man.
To one side of the porch is the large, if slightly unruly, vegetable garden. The early tendrils and blossoms for peas, tomatoes, onions, squash, eggplant, and beans have already started to show, and I’m pleased that I haven’t totally failed when it comes to caring for my little domain.
They’re just growing so slow is all.
I sigh, impatient as ever. I can deal with slow.
My contentment is brief. I wince as I glance further out toward the crops. Just last week I transplanted the seedlings from the potatoes, sugar-beets, and barley into the fields, just like I’d been taught to do. Usually, the little sprouts spring right up. But still nothing.
I stand up on the porch and put my coffee mug aside. Arms akimbo, I look out as far as I can see and spend a minute thinking about what I can do to fix the situation. Every night, I read and reread Pa’s old almanacs, trying to understand why the different crops are being so stubborn this year. I still haven’t found any answers in the guides or reports, and yelling at the fields only provides temporary relief. Just gotta be patient, like Pa.
But I’m less worried about the sprouts than I am about actual harvesting in a few months’ time. Most of the tools I need to complete the task need repair, and even more of them are too heavy for me to even use properly. Worst of all, the tractor stopped working a week after Pa died, and I don’t have the money to pay someone to fix it.